


Reclamation

by midnightlone



Category: Black Panther (2018), Black Panther (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 02:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightlone/pseuds/midnightlone





	Reclamation

Now that you were sitting in front of him, you couldn’t help agreeing with the millions of women that described Erik Stevens as lovingly intense. He was reclined, looking over the rim of his coffee cup at you. Don’t look at his hands Y/N. Despite the warning you’d given yourself your eyes feel to those hands cradling the mug. His hands dwarfed the mug and put his fingers on display. His nails were clean and trimmed. He had a 3 o’clock shadow(boo thang was patchy but you’d still sit on it). The way the sun hit left him glowing as the warm early autumn breeze ruffled your blown out Afro, flipping it this and that way. You tried to shake it out of your face as you wrote.

Pull yourself together Y/N you’ve done plenty of interviews already

But none of them look like him or looked at you like that.

”You not feeling the hot chocolate?” He nodded his head to the mug, the hot chocolate he’d made just after your arrival was cold and untouched. Shame he’d used milk and that semi-sweet chocolate you loved but you was far too nervous to drink while he while his dark gaze was on you. ”I could get you something else just say word.”

You tucked a thick calf under you as he spoke notepad resting on your leg. You responded in the negative even as he offered water and juice. You had to get through this interview without offering yourself up on the alter of his gorgeous face. 

“Mr. Stevens why did you name the album…” you looked down at the album notes and mouthed the words before you said them hoping you said it right. “N’Jobu’s Gambit?”

“Erik.” You looked up at him. “Call me Erik ma”

When you looked up from the notes he had shifted to the posture of feet apart and relaxed. Dammit, sweatpants season was here, and the way he was sitting would put him in the top tags on Twitter and Instagram. You were so spellbound that you missed his explanation of the album title. You made a point to pay attention after that. He spoke more about the influence and the topics he addressed. You made a mental note to take a few photos before you left. You had Erik Stevens outchere sporting an impressive print it needed to be documented for those restless nights.

It was only fair that you let him call you by your first name too. “Ok well my name’s F/N L/N call me Y/N”

“I know.” And then he went back to talking about the album with a grin on his face.

You shivered as the wind picked up but you weren’t all that sure if the shiver was from the wind or Erik’s eyes on you. Your body responded as thought he’d actually touched you, thighs clinched. It was that penetrating gaze that hardened your nipples and were distracting you from the task at hand. You pulled at the button-less cardigan hoping to mask them from him. You breathed in deep and with one hand brushed the hair displaced by the wind away from your eyes while you wrote his response.

“The album itself is an open letter of sorts.” To who he didn’t say but the seriousness that stole onto his face was surprising all on its own. He leaned towards you his tiny deck table the only thing separating you. You chanced a peek up and found yourself stuck on his full mouth. ”My parents were what you’d call pan-Africanist it was my mother who turned my father onto the plight of African Americans.”

You leaned forward at that and squinted at him but his last name was Stevens. He explained before you could open her mouth to ask. “Nah see my old man was African, he didn’t talk much bout how he came to America or where from. But the thick of it my baba came to America seeking asylum, and he met my moms, married her, took her last name and had me.”

Then just like that, he was smiling at you. Dimple on full display as he leaned back again. It felt like there was an imaginary wire tugging you forward. The pressure of the edge of the table pressed up against your ample chest stopped you from leaning all the way over. You looked back down at the neglected notepad and scribbled on the margins and on the lines.

“Baba?” You looked over at him then at the notepad.

“Father in Xhosa.”This time you felt a hand on yours and there he was leaning forward again. He was far to potent to be this close.

“Kosa?” You wrote as he explained it was one of the languages his father spoke. “Do you speak kosa too?”

He held his index and thumb together in response and looked up exposing the strong column of his throat.

“Let’s go in it looks like rain.” your pen stilled as you looked up fearful for the blowout you sacrificed precious sleep for. The sky darkened, wind whipped through your hair and left it messy with few strands sticking to glossed lips. You shook your head and leaned it back and tried to push your unruly strands straight back with a hand. A failed attempt to get the hair out of your face. You had none of those ouchless hair bands on hand. You heard a click and a clink. As he stood and offered to take the bag you were clutching to your chest, but he’d already grabbed the camera and mugs; you shook your head as you grabbed for it yourself.

He turned and guided you back into his studio his body acting as a shield against increasing wind. The whole way to his terrace door you were trying hard to not melt into the heat emitting from Erik’s body. He leads you into a giant sitting area before leaving to go to the kitchen. Too busy staring at those wide shoulders and the strong line of his back in that white T to catch what he was saying until he mentioned throwing out your hot chocolate and making a new one.

“Wait!” you jumped to your feet and followed Erik into the kitchen. Just as he was about to pour the coco down the drain. you rushed over to grab the mug from him. “No, don’t do that it’s still good!”

You chugged the mugs contents to show him, wasting coco was out of the question. He leaned back against his island when you finished with the cold beverage. You handed him the cup while licking off the foam residue that around your mouth. Those damn eyes again. Gleaning into you. If you were lighter you’d probably would have been visibly blushing. Your stomach took that moment to whine,that’s what happens when you forget lunch on your kitchen counter top and have only been sustaining on old mints at the bottom of your bag. You pressed your forearm against your tummy. It growled again louder and you hoped with everything in you he didn’t hear it.

You moved away from him it was only then you noticed your surroundings when your editor gave you the assignment she told that the loft you were meeting him at was his studio but one look showed the space doubled as his living space. 

“You mind if I make a little something I spent all morning recording.”

“No not at all.” You rushed back to the living room to grab your notepad and took a seat at the island on stool that gave the best vantage point as you watched Erik go to work in his industrial style kitchen. He was pulling down a cutting board and a saucepan. His back facing you when he spoke again.

“When my dad first arrived my ma used to say he was optimistically naive, he believed in that American adage pullin ya self up by the bootstraps. I don’t know maybe it was ma moms that showed him what we were going through or the proximity to us Black Americans that opened his eyes I don’t know all I know is I spent a large chunk of my childhood sitting in community progress meetings.”

“That inspires this album?” You scribbled down some of your thoughts and the songs that may be tied to his upbringing.” Some critics say you’ve reached into genres that most black people stay clear away from such as with ‘The Pipeline’ and its folksy country undertones or the rock influences in ‘Constant Cannibalization’.”

He was chopping up something he’d pulled from his fridge and you admired the muscles of his arm as he worked and spoke.He was so damn fine with that tapered cut and he worked out that ass was on a squat regime.

“I’m not encroaching on a style of music that was already mine long before white boys was singing about they pickup trucks and shit. We was singing it. Rock music was also ours it was race music before that slick bastard Elvis was stealing from black women.” He spoke with passion as he turned back to you and walked over to put a steaming mug down in front of you.

You wrapped your hands around the mug it and pulled it closer before lifting it to your lips to blow. He’d made you another cup of coco this time you took a hardy sip while it as still hot and closed your eyes at the taste. It was delicious and this time he added those giant smoore marshmallows.

When you opened your eyes, the mug was empty, he was directly across from you leaning on the counter watching you with hooded eyes and biting his lip. You put the mug down and grabbed for the notepad only to drop it back on the counter when Erik touched your hand. It was warm were his fingertips touched yours. Those eyes mesmerized you and your body acted on its own volition as you curved your fingers up to press against his. No, you were here for work the article needed to be in by 10 tonight. “Who did you write ‘Never Leave Me’ for?”

“I wrote ‘never leave me’ for my mother from my father’s perspective of losing his women and being stuck.” He’s single. No focus on the article Y/N. He played with your hand as he spoke the callouses on his hand creating a lovely sensation. You wrote what he was saying with rapt attention until he reached for your writing hand. “My mother went to prison when I was 10 and my father never gave up on her not even when she died of pneumonia when I was 12 he died the following year he loved her up to if not beyond his own death. I memorialized their love with that song.”

“You said your mother influenced your father’s outlook?” He was still holding your writing hand. He shifted from caressing your fingers to drawing nonsense patterns with the tip of his finger on your palm.

“Ma was a panther cub; I was raised on the Ten points program. Its why I brought up most of the foreclosures and pushed to bring back the arts in the schools round here.” Something you’d wrote about before he’d become a household name and secured enough wealth to fund after school programs. You’d been following his career since he’d been Killmonger, big in the underground.Even then he’d always giving to his community.

“Self determination by any means necessary.” Then just like that, he was smiling. You weren’t even interested in writing anymore you just wanted to hear his voice. And you wanted him to keep touching you.

“My dad thought that because there was opportunity in America everyone had access to it. He questioned why Black Americans had the lowest graduation rates and why they choose to stay in the ghetto. She corrected his assumptions and he fell in love. Together they worked to improve Oakland, I came 6 years later.”

Ding! He released your hand and went back to the stove. Stirring whatever was in the pot the aroma made your mouth water. You stomach chose that moment to make itself known again. You rummaged through your bag hoping to find another mint to hold you over till you left. Erik returned holding a plate of bread with butter, you reached for a piece and were delighted to find it warm. When did he warm the bread? Before you touched it you yanked your hand away from the bread and rushed over to the sink and scrubbed your hands. You rushed back over to the island and snatched up a piece of bread and grabbed the knife to smear it with some butter.

Erik came back to the island carrying two plates he sat them both down one in front of you the other on the island next to your plate and came back with forks and two glasses. He sat down next to you. As he offered you something to drink. You opted for the water, him a beer. Conversation flowed and you’d even got him to laugh a few times. He was still bad for your body over all and you still wanted to sit on his beard but held strong. The next time you looked away it was 6 pm you’d helped him clear away the dishes as he told you stories about growing up in Oakland and the year he spent trying to sound like Prince when he sang.

“I don’t got pretty nigga range,” you laughed at that and sighed it was getting really late.

“I should go.” You were reluctant but you had to send your editor a draft. All your gear as packed away and sitting in the hall at the front. He’d called his driver to take you home when you mentioned you’d get an lyft. His driver came; Erik carried your stuff to the car and the driver muttered to Erik in passing as they dabbed.

You bit your lip and fidgeted with your hands honestly not ready to say bye. You wanted him to ask you out. So that you could know if there as something there that you weren’t imagining it. He’d been so attentive and the attraction was there all he needed to do was say something or kiss you. Kiss you to relive some of the tightness he’d created in you. Kiss you to see if Schroeder cat’ was alive or dead. ”Thank you so much…Erik.”

Instead he’s watched you go.  
Later that night after you sent in your draft to your editor and wrote a piece for your blog you wondered why he didn’t kiss you when there was obvious chemistry. Instead of thinking to hard on it you showered, moisturized, slipped on a bonnet and a large shirt. Then you slept.


End file.
